


to dance with the limp

by ziparumpazoo



Series: Epilogue to an Epilogue [3]
Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief, Loss, Miscarriage, Post-Season/Series Finale, adults having adult conversations, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziparumpazoo/pseuds/ziparumpazoo
Summary: “You know, Picasso fathered children into his late sixties.”





	to dance with the limp

**Author's Note:**

> _You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp._  
>  -Anne Lamott

“You know, Picasso fathered children into his late sixties.”

The off-hand comment comes out of the blue one evening while Vic’s up to her elbows in soapy dishwater. The tumbler she’s washing slips out of her hands and hits the bottom of the sink with a heavy thud that resonates the whole countertop. Walt leans over and fishes the glass from the sink and swipes the insides dry with a dish towel he keeps throwing over his shoulder while he stacks away the clean dishes.

It’s been over a year since the shooting, and while they haven’t exactly sidestepped any talk of the baby, he’s never brought it up without something else leading into it first. She’s completely unprepared tonight and it knocks her feet out from under her. 

“You offering yourself up as a stud?” The sharp comment is out of her mouth before she can stop it. It’s easy to fall back on old habits. This particular heart is well-versed in the art of self defence.

Walt wipes his hands and shrugs, watching her. He doesn’t say anything, waiting for her to steer the conversation.

Which is right out the front door, snatching the dish towel for her soapy hands as she marches past.

The screen door bounces shut behind her.

Walt knows her well enough to give her time before he comes looking for her. When she finally hears the screen door hinges croak the sun has slipped below the horizon, backlighting the mountains to the west in soft oranges and gentle purples. Her cheeks still feel hot and her eyes gritty, even with the breeze coming down off the foothills.

“What?” It comes out sharper than she intends. There’d been a span when she’d been so angry about the shooting - part of the healing process, her therapist had said, but now she’s trying not to be so knee-jerk reactionary, at least with the people she cares about. It would be fair to say that lately, she’s been succeeding more often than not. Being with Walt and his slow-ignition temper helps, but not when he’s the one provoking her, or more accurately, provoking the reaction in her.

His boots shuffle closer. Not right beside her, but over to the other side of the steps. Out of the corner of her eye, Vic can see his silhouette lean against the post. “I need my towel back.”

Vic balls the towel up and throws it at him. It unwraps itself and falls short into no-man’s land between them. Walt’s shadow bends down, shakes out the towel and tosses it over his shoulder. He crosses the remaining distance to lean against the other porch post beside her.

“This isn’t…” She takes a moment to let the shakiness settle out of her voice. “This isn’t some baby owl thing. It’s not. I’m not having a breakdown just because you brought up the baby out of nowhere.”

“I know.” The deck boards sigh as he shifts his weight. “And the answer is yes.”

She turns to look up at him but his silhouette doesn’t move. “What the hell are you talking about?”

There’s a long a pause where all she can hear is him breathing, as if he’s taking his time to frame his words just right.

“Last week, when I stopped in at the office and Ruby’s daughter was there showing off the new baby, I saw you slip out the other door.”

“It was getting crowded. I decided to wait for you outside.”

It’s an excuse she’d use on somebody like Ferg who’d notice something not quite right, but who would also know better than to question her. Walt sees right through it though.

“Vic.” His voice is a low rumble, tender and gentle. It’s the voice he uses when he talks to his horse when it’s anxious. She’s not sure how the horse feels about it, but it’s always had the effect of completely disarming her.

She looks down to avoid making eye contact, even in the dark.

“It was just unexpected, that’s all.”

Even now, even with Walt, talking about the loss is hard. Her throat feels tight, like holding the words in is going to make them hurt less. “Ruby bragged that her daughter was picking her up for lunch, and I knew it was because she wanted to show off her new grandchild. So I stuck around. For Ruby.”

“Ruby would have understood if you couldn’t stay.”

She shrugs. Ruby probably had her suspicions about the pregnancy - she was more astute than most people gave her credit for. Vic just hadn’t wanted to distract from Ruby’s happiness at being a new grandmother right then.

“It’s just…” She blinks hard, trying to be more stubborn than the tears. “I’d imagined what it would be like to introduce the baby to people for the first time, you know? Back when I’d just found out I was pregnant and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it.”

“And when you saw Ruby with her grandchild, it stirred up those memories.” Walt finishes for her.

“Something like that.”

The words settle between them, lost to the noise of frogs creaking like rusty hinges in the ditch beside the driveway. 

Curious, she finally asks, “So what does Picasso have to do with any of this?”

There’s a low chuckle as he moves closer. “Just that he wasn’t only a prolific artist in his later years. The man was almost in his seventies when he became a father for the last time.” 

He turns serious. “Vic, you asked If I was offering to stud for you, and the answer is yes.” He takes another step and she can feel the heat of him at her side. “I’m not looking for an answer right now. I just wanted you to know that if you wanted to try to have another baby, it’s not out of the question. We could do that.”

“Walt…” 

“Vic, I know how much much she meant to you.”

Of course he does. She can’t deny that afterwards, when she’d been so raw and he’d supported her unconditionally, that she’d wished he’d been the father of her child. Things might have been different. She might have trusted Walt with the news of her pregnancy.

“Oh, Walt.” Still, her gut-clenching instinct is to protest. The thought of getting attached to the idea, of risking that kind of heartache again is too much.

Walt shifts, the hard leather soles of his boot marking the transition from one thought and the next with a familiar scuff on the deck boards.

“Vic,” He waits until she looks up at him. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to give up on the idea of having a child just because you’re with me.” 

This stops her. This isn’t some off-the cuff offer. There’s still a little red toy barn with its chunky plastic sheep and its dog and its cowboy that he’d tucked away in one of his bookshelves where real estate is normally at a prime. He’d always been open to the possibility, but in her grief, she hadn’t seen it.

Vic grips the wood railing and leans out into the night air. The lumber is still sun-warm and rough under her hands, grounding her against the sudden tide of what-ifs.

“I don’t know what to say.” She turns and notices that the light from the kitchen filters through the screen door enough that she can finally see his face. There is nothing there but the genuineness of the offer. “Walt, I don’t think I’m ready to even consider it yet. I don’t know if I even want a child. I don’t...I just don’t know…” And because she wants to give him something more than her fumbling indecisiveness, she reaches for his hand and finds that he’s closer than she’d realized. She slips her fingers between his and squeezes.

He pulls her forward and uses her momentum to tuck her against him, head under his chin like they’re slow dancing. She feels like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

“But thank you.” She mumbles into his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> *shakes out the wip folder*  
> That’s the last of them for now. 
> 
> With thanks again to tree.


End file.
